Side Dishes

February 27, 2014

But if you Google the phrase "skinny food" -- go ahead, I'll wait -- you'll turn up 250 million results.

I was a skinny kid. Though perfectly well-fed and properly nourished, I was awkwardly tall and thin during my early years, and though I didn't hate my body, I never liked the word skinny. It felt crass, a theoretical compliment wrapped in a garish linguistic bow.

In many cultures, being skinny results from a lack of nourishment, a lack of food. To call someone skinny is to express concern for their well-being; it's not a compliment. When I taught in the developing world in my mid-20s, people would sometimes tell me: Teacher, you are nice and fat! and this was high praise indeed. In countries where food is scarce, people don't want to be skinny. They want to be healthy.

In the U.S., of course, skinny has cachet. It moves products, defines brands, shouts full-throttle from newsstands, bookshelves, and television ads. You'll find countless Pinterest boards devoted to skinny food (and fashion); blogs and Tumblr accounts with skinny in the title; a whole line of Skinnygirl cocktails (which founder Bethenny Frankel sold for millions of dollars); Dr. Oz advising people (i.e. women) how to "eat yourself skinny" and Men's Health telling men how to do the same thing. (Ironically, by eating fat.)

But food doesn't make you skinny. Hunger makes you skinny. Disordered eating makes you skinny. Suffering and starvation and disease make you skinny. Who wants these things? No one. No one wants these things.

At its best, food nourishes you, helps you function and grow, provides essential nutrients for building muscle and bone, gives you energy, boosts alertness and metabolism and brain function, and keeps you alive. That's what food does. The one thing it doesn't do is make you skinny, unless you're not eating enough of it or you're neglecting major food groups. You can lose weight and become fit by combining thoughtful food choices with exercise, but weight loss is about much more than some magical "skinny food" slapped with that label.

Let's tone-down the skinny-talk a decibel or two, and finally celebrate food for what it does so well. When widely accessible, when grown with care, when consumed with intention, when coupled with movement, food has the ability to keep us healthy, fit, and alive.

Skinny food?

No, thanks.

...

Recipe for Roasted Vegetable Baked Potatoes with cheddar

Baked potatoes, with flaky skins and fluffy insides, celebrate not fat, not skinny, but good, wholesome eating. Slitting them open and spooning colorful roasted vegetables on top is one way to dress them up. Melting a bit of cheese on them is another. I recommend both. If you crave protein and creaminess, drizzle them liberally with yogurt. These won't make you skinny, but they'll feed you well. And isn't that the point?

Makes enough vegetables for 6 potatoes

Up to 6 medium baking potatoes, such as Russet (if using fewer, you'll have roasted vegetables left over for another use)1 medium head broccoli, cut into small florets1 medium head cauliflower, cut into small florets1 cup grape or cherry tomatoes, halvedOlive oilSalt and pepperShredded cheddar cheeseFull-fat yogurt, for serving (optional)

Preheat the oven to 425F°F. You'll use 3 oven racks, so space them evenly apart.

Scrub the potatoes and prick them all over with the tines of a fork or the tip of a paring knife. Microwave on full power for 5 minutes. Carefully remove, then wrap each one individually in foil. Transfer the potatoes to the oven, placing them either on a baking sheet or directly on the oven rack while you prep the remaining vegetables.

Divide the broccoli, cauliflower, and tomatoes between 2 rimmed baking sheets. Drizzle with a thin stream of olive oil and toss with a bit of salt and pepper. Spread out into an even layer with plenty of space in between. Slide into the oven. Roast for 25 to 30 minutes, reversing their positions and flipping with a spatula halfway through. The vegetables are done when the broccoli and cauliflower still have some bite but are tender, with crisp, browned edges. Pull the roasted vegetables from the oven and lower the temperature to 375°F.

Continue baking the potatoes until completely tender (wearing oven mitts, give a squeeze) and a skewer inserted through the foil comes out with no resistance, 15 to 25 minutes longer.

When the potatoes are soft, remove them from the oven. (Keep the oven on.) Open the foil carefully. (Steam will billow out.) Slit the tops lengthwise and, with gloved hands, press the ends toward the center so the insides fluff up. Use a fork to lightly mash the potatoes and flatten them, spreading the foil and creating surface area to hold the cheese and vegetables. Sprinkle a small fistful of cheddar over the potatoes and top with a spoonful of vegetables. Return to the oven for a few minutes, just until the cheese melts.

March 13, 2013

My eighth grade son recently wrote an essay about his fourth grade teacher.

About Mr. B, and how Mr. B had inspired him both inside the classroom and out. About Mr. B's running program, which entailed sending the kids outside to jog the track, first a little, logging each lap as they went. Eventually, over time, the kids would run longer, and faster, and by the end of the program, kids like my son were running seven, eight, nine laps, ten laps, pushing themselves to achieve their own personal bests.

The essay recounted how this teacher, and this program, encouraged my son to love running, to view it as a point of pride and self-motivation. How it inspired him to join his middle school cross country team, and to run with his dad, my husband, at every possible opportunity. They run weekends together, long runs, the warm sun flooding their faces for one hour, sometimes two.

My son is a runner.

He emailed the essay to Mr. B.

And Mr. B. emailed back, saying the essay "made his year" and reminded him of why he went into teaching in the first place. Saying he read it aloud to his wife.

This is what teaching does.

It connects people, sometimes long after their initial point of contact.

I was a teacher, once. And every now and then I still pine for those moments, those moments when a student looks at you and tells you that you've made a difference. But teaching is hard work. The preparation, the organization, the logistics of lesson-planning... those are things I don't miss. Those things are wholly undervalued, though they take up the lion's share of a teacher's time.

Several weeks ago, my friend Beth invited me to co-teach a cooking class with her. Sure, I told her, so long as you do all the work. (I really said this.) She was fine with that, and it's a good thing. I honestly wouldn't have -- couldn't have -- said yes to her otherwise, not at that time, not with other stuff I had going on.

I'm so grateful for her planning, her logistics, her hard work getting us ready. And then the class came, and we killed it. Her efforts paid off, and things went smoothly, and at the end of the morning, one of the people there took me aside, quietly thanking me.

Thank you for teaching me about these foods, he said.

Where can I find wheat berries?

Can I freeze roasted grapes?

Is this food healthy for me?

I answered his questions, one by one, grateful to Beth, and the universe, for making me -- just for a morning -- into someone else's Mr. B.

This hearty salad contains wheat,
grapes, olives, and caramelized shallots, which add a gentle
sweetness. I advise starting the wheat berries ahead. Soak them
overnight (if you want to -- it isn't strictly necessary), then boil, cool, and refrigerate. When you’re ready to make the
salad, they’ll be all set to go.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment
or silicone liners.

Dump the grapes all onto one baking sheet and pat very dry
if they’re at all moist. Drizzle with 3 tablespoons olive oil. Sprinkle with 1
teaspoon sea salt and 1/4 teaspoon black pepper. Rub in the seasonings with
your fingers. Now transfer half of the seasoned, oiled grapes to the 2nd
lined baking sheet. Nestle a rosemary sprig under the grapes on each sheet pan,
getting it a bit oily, too. (Save the 3rd sprig of rosemary for
garnish.)

Transfer to the oven. Roast for 30 minutes, stirring gently
and reversing the sheet pans once or twice. Remove when the grapes have burst
and the juices are syrupy. Let cool.

Meanwhile, while the grapes are in the oven, caramelize the
shallots. Place a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add 3 tablespoons olive
oil and the shallots. Sauté a few minutes just to get them going, until they’re
really sizzling. Then drop the heat down to medium-low and cook more gently,
stirring frequently, until deeply browned and very soft, 20 to 25 minutes. You
may cool them, or incorporate them into the salad while still warm.

In the bottom of a large serving bowl, whisk the final 2
tablespoons olive oil with the fig balsamic.
Season lightly with salt and pepper. Add 3-1/2 cups cooked wheat berries
and toss to coat. Gently fold in the grapes with their juices, shallots, and olives. Taste, adding up to one cup more wheat berries
if the flavors are too intense. Strip the final rosemary branch and let the
needles float over the salad, for garnish.

*To cook wheat
berries. Wheat berries do not need to be soaked, but some people
find that soaking makes them more digestible. Soak 3 cups hard red winter
wheat berries (found in the bulk aisle of Whole Foods) in plenty of cold water
overnight. Drain, and transfer to a large pot. Cover with fresh cold water and
salt generously. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer at a gentle
bubble, partly covered, for about 50 minutes, until tender but with a pleasant
chew. Drain. Spread out on a rimmed baking sheet to speed cooling. Once cool, transfer to a zip top bag or covered container in the
refrigerator. You’ll have 8 cups cooked wheat berries, which is twice as much
as you’ll need for the salad. I always advise making a large batch like this
because you can freeze extras.

June 05, 2012

I'll press it in your hand with a gentle squeeze. I'll leave it on your stoop, tied with twine. I'll tuck it in that book on your bedside table.

On second thought, I'll place it here, below, because this is where we gather, at least for now.

One of my favorite recipes from Ripe is the Green Beans with Smoky Pistachio Dust. I blanch the beans until they just barely give. I slotted-spoon them into ice water, drain them, pat them dry like a freshly-bathed child, and drizzle them with oil. Then I sprinkle them with pistachios I've pulverized with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. This is the best, easiest condiment I created for the book, and one with so many uses I could spend eons dreaming up new ways to enjoy it.

So, make the dust. Keep it in a jar on your counter. And shake it on everything. Salads, eggs, potatoes, noodles, any kind of casserole, any grilled or marinated vegetable you can imagine (except lima beans), mushed up avocado, any kind of grain dish, fish fillets, pilafs, are you bored yet?

It's jewelry, for food. Make it. Use it. Love it.

One day, I shall retire to the countryside with my jars of pistachio dust and have little pistachio dust babies and take up needlepoint and smoke my own paprika.

Roast the beets: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cut the leafy tops from the beets, leaving 1/2-inch stem. (Saute the leaves like other greens if they're very fresh.) Rub the bulbs gently with a bit of olive oil. Place in a Pyrex baking dish, with some wiggle room between each one. Cover tightly with foil. (Alternately, roast the oil-slicked beets in a foil packet on a baking sheet.) Roast for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a skewer comes out with very little resistance. Cool completely. Wear an apron. Peel with a paring knife. Dice.

Toss the diced, cooled beets in a jar with a splash of white wine vinegar, 2 generous pinches of sugar, and a solid pinch of salt. (Beets be stored, tightly covered, in the fridge for a good week, or longer, depending. Or use right away.)

Make the salad: Combine the frisee, avocado, cucumber, and some beets in a large salad bowl. Make a vinaigrette by whisking a few tablespoons of olive oil with about half as much of the beety vinegar from your jar (2 parts oil to 1 part vinegar). Season to taste.

March 14, 2012

In the past 2 weeks, several people have sought my advice. During the same period, I've reached out to several other people seeking their advice. I get off the phone after dissecting one friend's issues, and 10 minutes later I'm back on the horn yakking about my own tangled knots to someone else. It's a weird, twisted, and utterly inefficient triangle. I'm this advice-pod, with inputs coming in one end and outputs streaming from the other. But the inputs and outputs don't align, so as much as I'd like to, I can't just recuse myself, connect them to each other, and go out for ice cream.

Instead, I'm sticking close to home, advising and being advised, strategizing and shoring up. During this incubation period, after which travel and mayhem take flight, I find some measure of solace at the market and by the stove.

On Sunday, I took my son out for breakfast, and during the hourlong wait for a table we hit the nearby farmers' market. We scooped up spring carrots with twirly strings and frilly tufts, and admired their non-conformity before dropping them in our bag. They're super-sweet, but weird-looking. (Any resemblance to persons real or imaginary is purely coincidental.)

When we got home later, the phone rang.

I touched two carrots together. Jammed them this way and that -- stem to stem, root to root, tuft to tuft, head to toe.

Nothing happened. Not a spark. Inputs/outputs unaligned.

So I took the call. Advised, and sought advice. Spoke up, and stayed quiet. And when it was over, this advice-pod, this info-portal, this giver and receiver, needer and provider, listener and listenee, we all sat down and ate.

...

Recipe for Spring Carrot Sauté with olives, garlic, and millet

The golden hue of this millet caught my eye, and with some advice from Maria Speck's wonderful cookbook Ancient Grains for Modern Meals, I learned how easy it is to cook. (Look for millet in the bulk bins at natural foods stores.) I used it here as a bed for garlicky sauteed carrots. The next day, I splashed broth over the leftovers, simmered it anew, and added a few shrimp for a speedy second meal.

First, cook the millet. Combine the millet with 1-3/4 cups cold water in a small saucepan, bring to a boil, then reduce heat, cover, and simmer until tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from the heat. Keep covered.

Meanwhile, combine the 3 tablespoons olive oil with the garlic in a large skillet. Set over medium-low heat and allow to warm slowly, becoming fragrant, 5 to 10 minutes. Add the carrots and olives, crank the heat a bit, and saute until the carrots are tender but not mushy, 8 to 10 minutes, tossing frequently. (Cook time will vary based on the carrots' freshness and thickness.)

Scrape the cooked millet into the carrots and give everything a good toss. Sprinkle with the parsley, drizzle generously with additional olive oil, and adjust the seasonings to taste. (Add optional stir-throughs, if desired.)

To re-warm leftovers, moisten first with a bit of vegetable broth, then simmer gently.

December 20, 2011

At my college, the annual Latke-Hamantaschen debate drew standing-room only crowds in the Sunken Lounge, a step-down space that cleaved our dining center in two. During the event, two philosophy professors held forth on the relative merits of these foods so central to Jewish tradition. (This is a real thing.)

At the time, I found the debate both comical and rhetorical. After all, it was patently obvious, to me at least, that hamantaschen would always be far superior. With tender, triangular pastry and sweet, peekaboo fillings, hamantaschen owned my heart in a way greasy fried latkes never could.

And here's why: In all my years of latke-eating, I’d never had one that was truly transcendent. They were either too thick, or pasty, or half-raw in the middle, or all of the above. They weren’t offensive, but they just weren’t good. Eating a mediocre latke is like eating a Fed Ex box that has spent the night in the rain.

Several years ago, when I met my friend Alison, things changed. A few families, including mine, gathered for what was the first of many Hanukkah parties we would share, often at our friend Julia's, but occasionally at my house, depending on the year. Alison would arrive early, bearing potatoes, onions, matzoh meal, and the kicker: her traditional latke recipe.

There was nothing earth-shattering about the recipe, but for a food that’s all about balance and proportion – the right amount of potato to onion, the right amount of binder, the right amount to dole out for each pancake – it did the trick. I also watched her squeeze the living daylights out of the vegetables before she added the other ingredients, a step about which many latke-makers are a bit too relaxed. You want to squeeze that mixture until it weeps its very soul into your paper towels.

The other secret? I’ll tell you two. First, you need to watch your oil like a hawk. If it’s not hot enough, your latkes will absorb the oil and become flaccid. If it’s too hot, they’ll char. Tune that stove dial up and down like a radio knob, adjusting its volume until it’s pitch perfect. (When stove-top frying, oil will naturally rise and lower in temperature over time.) Second, the moment you remove the latkes from the oil and set them on paper towels, salt those babies. If you wait until later to perform this crucial task, the salt will never become one with the latkes.

Peel the potatoes and plunge them in a large bowl with cold water. Either cut them into large chunks, and then shred them and the onions in a food processor, OR keep the potatoes and onions whole and grate them on the large holes of a box grater.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs lightly and set aside.Transfer a few handfuls of shredded potatoes and onions to a double-thickness of paper towels, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can muster. Place in the bowl with the eggs and repeat with remaining potatoes and onions. You'll use quite a few paper towels, so be prepared.

Stir in the matzoh meal and season generously with salt and pepper. Mix well with a fork, making sure to distribute the eggs thoroughly.

Heat a few glugs of oil in a large heavy skillet (you'll use about 1/4 cup oil at first, but you'll keep adding more) over medium-high heat. To see if the oil is ready, put in a pinch of potato mixture; if it sizzles and turns golden in about 10 seconds, the oil is ready. Use an ice cream scoop or 1/4 cup measure to form the latkes; drop in the oil and flatten gingerly with a spatula. Cook until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. As you proceed, the pan will get hotter and the oil will need to be replenished. Adjust the heat and add new oil as necessary. Carefully remove any burnt particles.

When latkes are done, transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and sprinkle immediately with salt. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet and keep hot in the oven. Repeat until you've cooked all the latkes.

July 27, 2011

We grab a cart, we enter the grocery store, and a switch in our brain just... flips. We stop thinking and start reaching. In go the same boxes, bottles, and jars we've bought for years. Our favorite produce, tubs of hummus, blocks of cheese, and shapes of pasta. We pile them on, never once asking, Wait, do I even WANT this again?

Maybe the answer's yes, but maybe it's no. We can't tell, because we don't pose the question.

And technology makes it worse. I used to type H-e-r-i-t-a-g-e G-r-a-i-n-s into my smartphone's notepad, pecking each letter individually. I love that cereal, using it as a dumping ground for whatever fruit's in the fridge. Soon, though, the robot in my phone caught on. Now I type H-e-r and it completes the phrase. This stinks. What if, just once, my subconscious wanted herring, or an Hermès scarf?

So the next time you shop, slow down, take a breath, and listen. Do the white onions cry when you reach for the red? Do the peanuts resent your love for cashews?

Open your eyes, people. Each time you grab the olives and capers, you leave the hearts of palm behind.

Enough's enough.

...

Recipe for Hearts of Palm Salad with cucumber, tomato, parsley, and lime

Hearts of palm are woefully under-appreciated. Perhaps it's because you don't really know what they are. (They're the tender insides of the cabbage palm tree, sold in cans or jars.) Perhaps it's because you don't know what to do with them. (Try substituting them for olives or capers in cold preparations.) Perhaps it's because you don't know where to find them. (Trader Joe's and other large supermarkets.)

This salad's refreshingly bracing and uncomplicated, and perfect for sticky summer weather. If you feel a need to bulk it up, toss in avocado, corn, or even cooked bulgur.

In the bottom of a serving bowl, whisk the oil, lime juice, and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Gently fold in the onion, hearts of palm, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Shower with parsley. Let stand 15 minutes at room temperature. The serve, or chill for up to one hour.

March 15, 2011

And yet, anyone who has had the pleasure of visiting France will be familiar with céleri rémoulade, a cool-crunchy-creamy-tangy side often served with carottes râpées, or shredded carrot salad. Think about potato salad and coleslaw, then stop thinking about them and think about céleri rémoulade and carottes râpées instead. Now think about eating them on a horse. Now think about the Old Spice Man eating them on a horse. Whatever. Give me carottes râpées, give me céleri rémoulade, give me riz au lait (French rice pudding), and then get out of my way.

My love for this dish aside, I'd never bought a whole celeriac -- also called celery root -- to make it myself. Why? Because this is generally me at the market: Hmm, should I buy the bright purple eggplant, the gorgeous rainbow chard, or the terrifying-looking hairball? I rest my case.

But last weekend, I bit the bullet. And to my great surprise, eating céleri rémoulade in America is just as delicious as eating it in Paris, and making it takes only 15 minutes. It's even quite beautiful if you tangle it up with golden beets.

True, most of us can't eat celeriac while picnicking by the Seine.

But we can eat it while unloading the dishwasher, or sorting the mail, or reading the news, wide-eyed and sober, with the heaviest of hearts.

...

Recipe for Golden Beet and Celeriac Remoulade

I adapted this recipe from Nigel Slater, whose dressing offers the perfect balance of creaminess, tanginess, and je ne sais quoi. Adding golden beets pumps up the salad's visual appeal and adds a second layer of earthy sweetness.

Peel the celeriac and the beet(s). I used a peeler first but then switched to a knife about halfway through. When peeling the celeriac, remove both the outer brown skin as well as the light green layer under the peel (if yours has it). Cut into chunks. Shred, preferably with the medium shredding disk of a food processor, if you have one. Transfer to a large serving bowl and toss with half the lemon juice.

Whisk the remaining lemon juice, mayo, dijon, and sour cream and scrape over the vegetables. Top with the herbs and toss through. I actually didn't need salt and pepper, but season, if desired, to your liking. Serve immediately.

November 02, 2010

You know what I love? Profiteroles, a good hair day, and Canada. You know what I don't love? Supermarket vegetable platters.

Recently, somebody I know very well threw a party. This was a lovely party in a lovely setting, and there were lovely people in attendance. I'm not going to say too much because then this unnamed host will get in trouble with all the people he didn't invite, but I will say that he served a supermarket vegetable platter as well as an enormous amount of impressive and tasty catered food. He also ordered himself a giant birthday cake inscribed with the words: "Carlos*, you are an inspiration to us all." (*some identifying information may have been changed)

Anyway, much of the food at this party was devoured, including these little skewered brownies and even these cookies, but lo! The supermarket veggie platter went mostly untouched. This meant that after the party I inherited a UFO-sized mass of baby carrots, cruciferous florets, and cherry tomatoes that looked like reindeer noses and tasted pretty much like, reindeer noses.

We all come to a crossroads in our lives. This may happen when our children go off to college, or when we realize we've eaten one too many Take 5's from the Halloween bucket. My crossroads came when I looked at that crudité platter and realized I was a vegetable snob, plain and simple, and didn't want to spend all week munching crudités that had as much character as recycled Q-tips.

(If you're a food writer, cookbook author, or chef, skip the next paragraph. SKIP IT! You will not be enlightened. This is for everyone else out there. All the real people. All the the cooking-phobic men and women, in uniform and out, be they tightrope walkers, accountants, tae-bo instructors, jewelers, glassblowers, or jewelry-making, tae-bo instructing glassblowers. This next paragraph is for those who are not comfortable or familiar with the concept of roasted vegetables. The rest of you, take a hike.)

Dumping an entire tray of crudites straight from the supermarket onto a rectangular sheet pan, drizzling them with olive oil and a little vinegar, sprinkling them with salt, pepper, and a little thyme, and then roasting them in a hot oven makes them not only edible, but magically delicious. They go from Clark Kent to Superman and from Miss Piggy to Miss America, but with excellent spelling and a strong command not only of world geography but also of quantum physics.

They are, in the words of someone I may quite possibly be married to, an inspiration to us all.

...

Recipe for Basic Thyme-Roasted Supermarket Vegetable Platter

If you've never roasted vegetables before, this tried-and-true method just may change your winter cooking habits. Roasting at high heat caramelizes the vegetables' natural sugars, and causes them to collapse and sweeten. You want to give them a good stir every now and again, and keep them in the oven until they've got visible brown spots. You can substitute thick-cut fennel, onions, potatoes, parsnips, diced butternut squash, and a whole host of other vegetables with equally delicious results. Just keep the sizes fairly uniform, and use your judgment with the oil. You may need a little more, or less, than indicated.

Your goal is to roast the vegetables in a single layer, with some space in between each one. If you pile too much on one sheet pan, the veggies will steam rather than caramelize. This is bad.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees, with the racks in the center and upper third of the oven. If necessary, divide vegetables between two rimmed baking sheets. (Do not spray, line, or otherwise coat the sheets.)

If using two sheets, use the larger amount of oil, vinegar, and salt above, and divide the quantities between the two sheet pans. Drizzle the veggies with oil and vinegar, sprinkle with the salt and freshly ground black pepper, and nestle a few thyme sprigs here and there. Shmoosh the oil and seasonings with clean hands to coat, then rearrange into a single layer.

Roast in the hot oven for about 20 to 30 minutes, stirring with a heatproof spatula or tongs halfway through and reversing the order of the sheet pans. You want the vegetables to become al dente and browned, and this may take a little more or less time depending on the size of the crudités and what vegetables you choose to roast. Also, the tomatoes will pop and shrink. This is perfectly normal, so do not be alarmed. Embrace them like you would a favorite cousin, or a doll. Do not overcook.

September 27, 2010

I hear some of you gnawing on crisp fall pears. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw. Chomp, chomp, chomp. It’s kind of annoying, actually. For while you’re pearing, wearing fleece v-necks, simmering stews, and bobbing for apples, it's 97 degrees here and I'm still in Tomatoland. Would you mind holding the door open while I hustle through with this skillet?

Thanks. And now, as a reward for your act of fine courtesy, for your gesture of politesse, I shall offer you this gold-tinged side. It's one you'll want to make before the sun fully sets and the gray clouds roll in. If your tomatoes still cling to their waxy green vines, twist those suckers off like you mean it and grab a few big onions from your pantry.

Cause we can talk about tomatoes all we like, we can write odes and poems and sonnets to them, but the real star of this particular theatrical production is actually a giant, twirling morass of onions that has been caramelized into submission and kissed with a sprinkling of powdered sunshine, or, as they call it in India, turmeric.

I know summer's long gone for many of you, and I do want to be sensitive to your whereabouts, wherever those whereabouts may be. (Where are your whereabouts exactly?) If you're over tomatoes, if they're as dead to you as a schoolyard bully, if your weather's too brisk and your rains have come in and you've moved on emotionally to pumpkins and roasts and hay bales, please don't despair. I hereby grant you special dispensation to crisp up cubes of butternut squash and toss them on the onions and the beady little couscous, in the tomatoes' stead.

And next year, when the summer sun rises anew, you can enter Tomatoland refreshed and revived, and there I'll be, holding the door open, waving you through with a nod and a smile....

Recipe for Israeli Couscous with turmeric, caramelized onions, and tomatoes

A beautiful, sunny side open to infinite additions -- I was tempted to toss in olives, feta, even cubes of lamb -- this dish will brighten up your kitchen, or perhaps your entire zip code. Makes a terrific potluck offering, too. The onions will take about 30 minutes to cook, so plan accordingly.

Drop the couscous into a large pot of rapidly boiling, salted water, and cook like pasta, until al dente, about 7 minutes. Drain and rinse briefly under cool water.

Meanwhile, caramelize the onions. Heat the olive oil in a large, wide skillet over medium-high heat, then add the onions and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Saute, tossing occasionally with tongs, for about 15 minutes. Sprinkle in the brown sugar, balsamic, turmeric, and 1/4 teaspoon more salt, and continue cooking, and giving a stir or two, over this assertive heat for 5 more minutes. Then reduce the heat to low and cook, tossing frequently, for 10 minutes longer, or until very soft, glisteny, and sweet.

Stir in the cooked couscous, top with the tomatoes, and serve warm, or at room temperature.

June 28, 2010

At a gorgeous wedding this weekend in Carmel-by-the-Sea, with a bagpiper piping and woolly sheep bahbahing, I saw a woman I hadn't seen in a while. I didn't do the mental math to quantify the time, but when she saw me she blurted, "I had a baby, and she's 14 months old!" And I was like, wait, what? When were you even pregnant? And you already had the baby, 14 months ago? What kind of rock have I been living under, and did I see any good movies while I was there?

Somehow, much to my surprise, time marches apace, and when I don't pay attention it speeds up double-time. And that's all well and good, because I love 2010, it's a great year and a fine vintage and all that, but the fact is, I used to have 16 months to write a cookbook and now I have 8. In other words, holy hell-almighty-expletive-unmentionable-unprintable-inappropriate exclamation.

So, by the calendar at least, I'm halfway there. And this very fact lights a fire under my arse and inspires me to eat a lot of bacon.

The reason is simple. As a meat-free cookbook, ours is baconless, and that means all of the recipes in the book will be noticeably devoid of pork, not to mention beef, chicken, and duck à l'orange. Not eating bacon is pretty much what I do all day. It's my job. I'm like a surgeon, but I don't save lives.

However, on days when I'm not book-working?

This green-beany, fried-sagey, bacony side dish is pretty wonderful, and when I made it, Alex, who's 9, and one of his little 9-year-old friends of the female persuasion were hanging out together in that innocent way 9-year-old boys and girls can sometimes do. And they kept popping into the kitchen to pilfer the green beans, giggling as they downed the crispy bacon slivers and bits of fried sage. Little thieves, those two.

Promise you won't let me fall asleep. I have a feeling if I do, when I wake up, they'll be married, and they'll be like, Hey Ma, can you watch our 14-month-old while we head to the movies?

...

Recipe for Bacon Green Beans with crispy sage

Green beans and bacon are a pretty classic pairing, but still -- there's something a little naughty about including a little bacon fat in the mix. Turns out it makes a lovely medium in which to fry sage.

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat and add the bacon. Fry until crisp, nudging it around a bit so it cooks evenly and doesn't burn, and lowering the heat as necessary to avoid sputtering. Use a slotted spoon to move the bacon to paper towels to drain.

Add the whole sage leaves to the hot bacon fat. Cook about 3 minutes or until crisp, using tongs to flip leaves gently two or three times. Remove to the paper towels.

Pour off all but 1 tablespoon of the fat in the skillet. Add the green beans and the thinly sliced sage, and saute for about 5 minutes, turning often with tongs, until beans are bright green, speckled brown in spots, and crisp-tender. Season with salt and pepper, garnish with the bacon and fried sage, and serve immediately.

Welcome to my blog. My name is Cheryl Sternman Rule. I’m a Silicon Valley food writer with a lot to say and a keen desire to share it with a broad audience. I write cookbooks and freelance for numerous national publications. To read my full bio and see samples of my print work, visit my portfolio website at cherylsternmanrule.com.